A Physics Equation

Super sweet Mustang + 80 mph + giant rubber tire in the middle of the freeway =

And the correct answer is: cracked & scratched bumper, busted AC condenser, dented radiator, broken scratch guard, broken fuel line clips, and the grand finale - lower grill completely gone.

Total damage = $1,113.51

I am so glad I didn't pay to have my bumper fixed when that sweeper attachment jumped out in front of me...

The only thing that made me feel better was when I was leaning across the table to help a 3-year-old girl color, and she exclaimed, "Hey! Dem your boobies!"

Yes they are, sweet child. Yes, they are.

Thanks, Dad.

Last night, I was talking on the phone to my dad, when he felt the need crack open an egg of wisdom over my head.

Bone Daddy: Dear, if you want to get married, you have to do two things. First, stop being such a wise ass; and second, stop being so flip. Those things can be intimidating.

Bone Junior: Really? Because I happen to find those qualities quite endearing.

First of all, I don't even know what it means to be 'flip'. Then again, this is coming from the same man who on the night of my senior prom, told me I looked 'very sharp.'

And here I thought I wasn't married because I don't cook. Thank goodness for the wisdom of fathers.

In Your Face, Hizznizzle

Today I found an article on MSN that ranked the ten best fan bases in the NFL. Hizznizzle, and all Cowboys fans, please to enjoy the results.

#10 - Dallas Cowboys

This fan base, which was really a bunch of bandwagon jumpers during the Aikman-Irvin-Emmitt dynasty, transformed into diehards. With fans in every city, "America's Team" has become wildly popular. Simple folks flock to the star and seem to be enamored with it, but the rules about cheering for a team you have no connection with is still a violation.

#9 - Chicago Bears

Where else can you not put any kind of offensive threat on the field for 20-some years and still have a packed stadium every season? Bears fans come out regardless of the terrible management keeps rolling out players such as Grossman, Orton, Griese, Benson, Salaam, Enis, etc.

And the number one fan base in the NFL IS.....

#1 - Philadelphia Eagles

Some might call this biased, but the most passionate fans in all of sports are without question Philadelphia Eagles fans. They're cold-blooded and probably give KC a run for their money as being the loudest. They are by far the most knowledgeable fans in the league, and invented the perfect "boo." What cemented Philadelphia fans' reputation as the most amoral, loathsome collection in sports is famously called The Booing of Santa Claus. You would boo and throw snow balls too if Santa came out drunk in a half-done costume. Eagles' fans must deal with sports owners whose actions have not produced a champion in 25 years. The Eagles haven't hoisted a championship flag in 48 years, but the waiting list for season tickets is so long that you could sell out three stadiums full of Eagles fans for games.And this is where my gloating begins - it's officially football season!!

The Park City Mustang Show: Where All My Wildest Dreams Came True

Saturday morning I got a call from a co-worker, telling me that I had to get my butt up to Park City because there were about two hundred Mustangs lining Main Street.

A few hours later, I was strolling down Main Street with a huge ridiculous grin plastered on my face, oooh-ing and aaah-ing at all the different Mustangs, and getting amazing ideas to pimp my ride. Mirrors!! On the inside of the hood!!!

This one was my hands down, absolute favorite. It has all the common elements of things that I love: purple, sparkly, bad ass, and has horses on it.

Let's take a closer look...

Aaaaaaaand let's take an even closer look...That's right. I'm not above shamelessly drawing attention to my little ta ta's.
Really I just wanted you to be able to see what my shirt says.
Find your own variation at www.savethetatas.com.

Finally!!

Something amazing and incredible happened this morning. Something I'd been waiting for months to say finally came to be.

In our weekly team meeting, as per usual the conversation had become peppered with "That's what she said" lines from the estimator.

Mitch: Hey guys, can we please stop with all the sexual innuendo?

Bone Junior: In YOUR endo!

So I admit that I totally ripped this line from "Scrubs", but I've been waiting for SO LONG for the perfect opportunity to use it, that I don't care if it's stolen - the pay off was worth it.

Snooty? Snotty.

It's fair to say that I get made fun of on a daily basis for the way I pronounce certain words. (Anyone from Pennsylvania will identify with what I'm talking about here). For example, 'horrible' is 'harrible'; 'orange' is 'ahrange'; 'forehead' is 'farhead', etc etc. My crowning glory is 'wood-er' (water).

Whenever I use any of these words at work, a co-worker will immediately stop and say, "What's wood-er?" My typical response is, "Oh, I'm sorry. Waaaaahhhhhhhhhter." Sigh. Eye roll. It drags out a lot of conversations.

I'm so tired of being "corrected" and I'm so arrogant that I called into a morning radio show to correct the on-air host for her pronunciation of "Reading Railroad", a la Monopoly. Unfortunately, instead of sounding educated, I sounded just plain pompous.

"Um, hiiii. I was just calling to tell you that it's pronounced Redding? Not Reading Railroad? Yeeeeah. It was originally the Philadelphia and Redding railroad, before the Redding company split off in the 1920's?....yeah, and there's a city in Pennsylvania named Redding, and there's even a baseball team called the Redding Phillies.... I'm from there? So, you know....yeah."

I am such an ass.

Character Witness

This weekend, on our way home from the pool, Nicole and I were comparing sun damage. She gets cute freckles all across her shoulders while I am uniformly the color of deck stain.

Bone Junior: I wish I got freckles like you. It adds character.

Nicole: (Sigh) Bone Junior, if you had any more character, I don't know what I'd do with you.

Case in Point: If you ever get pulled over for going 64 in a 35, make sure the cop has a sense of humor before handing him this when he asks for your license and registration:Otherwise he might threaten to slap you with falsely identifying yourself along with a hefty speeding ticket. Hypothetically.

Because I'm a Grownup

My recent "Anonymous" post got a lot of attention, hence the comments. And while it warmed my heart to get everyone's general agreement that Anonymous isn't worth another minute of my time, there were some hilarious, strongly worded comments that I loved, but I chose not to post.

Why? Mostly because I don't want to start some kind of underhanded war with Anonymous. I just want to let it lie, because I made my point. Posting those comments would be juvenile.

And then I emailed the comments to my friends so that we'll have one more thing to laugh about together. Because that's the mature thing to do.

Mobile Shout Out Part 3

Happy Anniversary Hoss & Rose!

Here's to another four years of student hood!

It seems like just yesterday I was looking at these pictures and peeing myself and making everyone at work come look at them and peeing some more from laughing so hard. This is my favorite memory of you, which might be kind of weird, since I wasn't even there... maybe it's because my sister is cracking up as you're suffering and dry heaving, and I know that had I been there, I would've done the exact same thing. The exact same thing as in cracking up, not as in dry heaving and suffering.

Here's Looking at You, Anonymous

You know what's awesome about having Sitemeter on your blog?

Let's say, hypothetically, "someone" named "anonymous" looked at your blog and left a really mean comment; hypothetically, saying that you should have gotten lipo instead of getting new boobs.

Hypothetically, with the help of Sitemeter, you'd be able to find out exactly who the person was. You could find out their IP address, their longitude and latitude, their server provider, what time they left the comment, how long they looked at your blog, how often they look at your blog, where they were before they got to your blog, and where they went after.

And putting all these elements together, you'd be able to find out exactly who the person is that feels the need to anonymously post his opinion about your body. But instead of posting that information, you could choose to take the high road. Because it's someone that you actually know, and now he knows that you know it's him - because he reads your blog regularly.

And your best defense is to take pleasure in the fact that you know he's not worth another second of your time or thoughts.

Hypothetically.

Mobile Shout Out Part 2

Happy Anniversary, Andi & Adam!It seems like only four years ago that we were playing bachelorette games in your grandma's basement. Remember this handsome fella?

Good times, noodle salad. Happy four years!!

Mobile Shout Out

Happy Anniversary, Barbie & Mike!

It seems like only yesterday when I was sleeping on the couch at the colony and you came home from a date and didn't know I was on the couch and I awkwardly heard you making out at the door.

Congrats on your anniversary - you've been able to awkwardly make out whenever you want for seven years now. Way to go!

This is What 1380 CC's of Saline Looks Like

I decided to forgo posting the 'before' pictures because they were so unflattering; and really, the less everyone sees of my small, sad little boobies, the better. Suffice it to say that it didn't look like I had boobs until I put on my padded uplift bra. That being said...

Ta da!
There is still some swelling, so I'm wearing an ace bandage to strap them down for another week. But not too shabby for two weeks after surgery, eh??

It's Been a Tramautic Week

During the course of the past seven days, I have done the following:

- Thrown up in Erin's car;

- Had nightmares that a small man was sitting on my chest suffocating me;

- Nearly passed out when the nurse yanked the surgical tape off my brand new boobs, ripping the skin off in the process and causing blisters;

- Didn't poop for six days;

- Slept sitting up every night;

- Had an emotional breakdown when I took my first post-surgery shower (three days after surgery...I know. I'm gross) and saw my bruised, battered, and broken looking new boobs in the mirror. Crying and wailing continued when I tried to raise my arms to wash my hair for the first time;

- Had an emotional recovery when I bought my first cute new bra and rejoiced at the size.

And then... there was last night. I don't know if I can recount the details of the most horrific, traumatic, terrifying thing that's ever happened to me.

First I need to explain that for the past week (and for the next two weeks) my brand new boobs are wrapped in an ace bandage (otherwise they'd pop out the top of my turtleneck) and I have to wear a granny bra on top of that. It's quite the attractive combination.

Last night, due to the fact that I live in the desert, I was sleeping on top of my covers in my skivvies. And by skivvies, I'm referring of course to the sexy hot granny bra and ace bandage. I was thisclose to falling asleep when in my semi-sleep stupor, I felt something crawling on my hand.

I sat straight up in bed and flailed my hand before leaping up and turning on the lamp. If it was a fly, no big deal. But if it was the alternative...a spider...I had to have a visual, hone in on the target, and destroy it.

I spent several minutes scouring my bed and all surrounding areas, but didn't find whatever had been crawling on me. Which made me feel even more unsettled. If I could just see it and know what was there...

I finally convinced myself that it had only been a fly and went to turn the lamp off. When I looked down, I nearly fainted from fright. There, on my brand new boob, was a huge crusty spider. Right. On. My. Boob.

As you can imagine, I let out a manly wail and started to flail, except it was more of a panicked waving motion, as my boobs are so sore, I didn't dare touch them. Not only did the spider not fall off, but it proceeded to crawl across the ace bandage towards my brand new cleavage.

At this point, I started to cry and flail more violently, except this time I bent forward at the waist and did some kind of shimmy (which I'm sure was incredibly attractive and all sexy like) in an effort to stop the spider from reaching my actual skin. Which somehow incredibly shook the spider off my body to the floor, where I promptly grabbed a sneaker and bashed the living hell out of it, crying the whole time.

I'm amazed that my neighbors didn't come over to make sure I hadn't been raped and pillaged.

Then again, judging from the screams they heard, they probably thought I was a man.

Still Alive

I'm still alive, and almost four pounds heavier!

As I'm still coming out of my percocet-induced haze, I haven't been doing much except for laying around and having nightmares that someone is sitting on my chest trying to suffocate me.

And I owe a million thank-you's to all the people who have called, texted, and emailed to see how I'm doing. And especially to Erin and Nicole for their round-the-clock nursing duties. And also sorry to Erin for puking in her car.

"After" pictures to come as soon as my chest doesn't look like a battered wife anymore.

My Car Got Gang Banged

I looked out the office window today and was not at all surprised to see the latest stunt of three superintendents:And yes, I am one of "those people" who parks way far away from everyone else to avoid door dings, and now, gang bangs.

In Which I Become A Woman

"Dad, now that I'm twenty-six, and an adult, I've made the decision to get a boob job."

Blink. Blink.

My sixty-year-old father sat across from me last weekend and stared at me as if I'd just told him that I'd eloped with my twice-my-age boyfriend at the Little Chapel in the Woods at Graceland, and by the way, I'm having his love child and can we stay with you for awhile? Then he proceeded to unload on me all of his fatherly "wisdom"; and by "wisdom" I mean, "I'm your father and I know everything about everything and there is no way in hell I'm supportive of the fact that you're making a huge mistake that you'll regret for the rest of your life."

Suffice it to say, breaking my big news to my dad did not go well.

But for the rest of you, I hope that breaking my big news goes much better.That, my friends, is a preview of the "After" result of my boob job which is happening...IN ONE WEEK! Yes, really. And everyone is invited to a "Bon Voyage Bone Junior's Boobies" dinner this Saturday night.

So if I don't blog much for the next little bit, it's probably due to a combination of the following reasons:

- My stomach is in knots as the surgery gets closer;

- I'm working on a eulogy for my sad little boobies;

- I'm shopping for all my post-op necessities: a large bra, lots of water, crackers, Benadryl, Step Up 2: The Streets on DVD, and lots of Percocet;

- I'm recovering from the pure exhilaration of seeing the midnight showing of The Dark Knight this Thursday;

- I'm so freaking excited to finally get ginormous bazoombas.

Where Do These People Come From and How Do They Always Find Me?

You know what I don't understand? I don't understand why some people think its okay to go up to a stranger and just blurt out whatever they're thinking.

Like when I was waiting for my two-hours-delayed flight at the Philadelphia Airport on Monday, quietly enjoying a peanut butter cup blizzard thingy from TCBY, and an older black businessman comes right up to me and says, "You know you shouldn't be eating that."

Blink. Blink.

Bone Junior: Are you saying that I'm fat?

Businessman: Um, no, ahem, no no no, I'm just saying it's bad for you.

Bone Junior: (shoving another spoonful into my mouth) Right, well thanks for the heads up, but its frozen yogurt, so it's not that bad, and I'm going to keep eating it disirregardless of your opinion.

At this point, any normal person would take the hint that they've already crossed the line with me and would go away. Not this guy. He continued to stand there and tried to engage me in conversation to the point of calling me a Phoenician from ancient Mesopotamia because of my skin coloring. Other topics touched upon include Barack Obama, my nose, my birth order, my age, him asking me to guess his age, and his opinion that if he had lived during the times of slavery that he would have been an ideal candidate for breeding. Yes, really.

The conversation ended when he told me that he believed we were kindred spirits and that he could see it in my eyes.

Buh-bye.

Let the Crying Commence

Final Score:

Sweeper attachment = 1

Bone Junior = 0

Thank You Sir May I Have Another?

I had my first appointment with my new lady doctor today, and I have to say, I'm not sure I'll be going back to her.

First of all, the paper robe they gave me was more like a bolero, and I managed to rip the sleeves off at the seams from trying to pull it tighter around me. I tried to arrange myself somewhat gracefully, but by the time the doctor came in, my butt was sticking to the deli paper on the table and I looked a crazy mess with my torn paper bolero and bare butt hanging out.

She told me to put my hands behind my head for the breast exam, and then she said the words that immediately made me decide that I wasn't going back to her:

"Well! You have such small breasts! That's ok - it makes these exams so much easier!"

Really, lady? As if I need someone else confirming the fact that I got the concave end of the gene pool when it comes to boobs.

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah. Can you just...not? Thanks."

Which just confirmed my decision that instead of buying these:
I'm going to buy these:
Yep, I'm really doing it. In the near future. Stay tuned - Erin and I have already planned out the before & after pictures.

Love/Hate

I recently started going to a physical therapist because I tweaked my neck pretty bad a few weeks ago and Lortab did absolutely nothing for me. I was kind of disappointed - I didn't get high or anything, and at the very least I was hoping to have an excuse to be loud, obnoxious and bossy. Oh wait. I already am. How about that.

So when the muscle relaxers and Lortab didn't help and I was still having to turn my entire upper torso, a la Batman, just to look to the side, I started seeing Dr. John. I've seen him three times now and I kind of love him and hate him at the same time.

I only hate him for the same reason I hate all doctors/dentists/gynos/waxers: they ask questions that make me feel like I'm supposed to know the right answer, but I don't think I do. Like when he's rubbing my neck so hard that my whole body is moving and he asks, "How does that feel?"

Um...hurts? But... good? Hurts so good? How do I explain that the knots in my neck are so tight that my eardrums are throbbing when he rubs it, but it doesn't necessarily hurt per say.

"How are you feeling today?"

Uh...good, I think? My neck was sore this morning? But...it's getting better? Right? Is that the right answer?

I hate him because the way he pulls on my head and stretches my neck back and forth gives me vertigo and static hair, and smears my eye makeup; so I stagger out of there like I'm doing the walk of shame at seven in the morning.

I also hate him because his seventeen-year-old male assistant squirted the ultrasound gel all over my back and up into my hair. Personally, I don't buy into the whole ultrasound on my neck thing. I don't think that machine is really doing anything.

But I love him because getting my neck rubbed for twenty minutes is oh so wonderful, even if it makes my eardrums throb. And I like to mess with his stuff when he's out of the room - like the controls for the tabs he sticks on me that send pulses to my neck and shoulder muscles. I like to turn up the strength so that my arm is bouncing all over the place. It just cracks me up. They probably wonder why I'm laughing so much when they leave me in there alone.

Then again, if they knew me at all, they probably wouldn't wonder at all.

Bruce Declares It; It Must Be So

When I was in high school, my tennis coach Yaquim, used to yell at me all the time. Most often he'd be screaming, "Moo ya feet, Sair! Moo ya feet!" Somehow he always made my name into a one-syllable word. Other times it would be, "Loo where you standin! You in NO man's land!" Then he'd call me Meeda because I looked like a Mexican, and make jokes about how he thought I worked at Ray's Boom Boom Room on the weekends.

The point is that in between all his crazy ramblings, sometimes Yak actually had some good advice. He'd say, "Its jus that simple." Oh, is it? Is it really just that simple, Yak? Ok. Next time I'm getting my butt handed to me by the number one ranked singles girl, I'll remember that it's just that simple to beat her and I'll do it, instead of just not moving my feet.

Which brings me to Bruce. Bruce is Bone Senior's father in law, so I'm not really sure what that makes him to me, other than my number one all time fan. How do I know this? Last week I got a phone call from an unrecognized number. The man on the line asked if I was Bone Junior, then said that he'd seen me driving around in a blue mustang, and that he'd been trying to find out who I was.

Given my recent track record with guys and driving around, naturally my interest was peaked. But I was still a little suspicious, so I set a trap, a la Stallone in Lock Up ("A-Block? There is no A-Block!" Anyone? No? Never mind).

The trap being that I asked if he'd seen my plates and he said yes, but wait! At the time, there were no plates on my car, so I knew this guy was full of baloney. Gotcha, sir. Then he revealed himself as Bruce and I felt a little awkward for kind of flirting with him at first when I really believed that he'd somehow tracked me down after seeing me drive around. How sad is that.

The reason for his call being, in a nut shell, that he thought I should be famous. I always wanted to be famous for winning a mayonnaise eating contest, but Bruce thinks I should be famous for my writing.

He went on to tell me exactly how to accomplish this fame, and made me take diligent notes:
See? It's jus that simple.

DDYS GRL

That's what my plates say: DDYS GRL.

Just kidding. I would sooner die. However, along with the grand unveiling of my license plates, which finally arrived this weekend, I thought it would be fitting to give a shout out to my dad - after all, he's the one responsible for the name on my plates.

Drum roll, please...

... and cue the sigh of disappointment and confusion from those of you who don't actually know me in person.

My dad says that when I was learning to talk, I could repeat back almost any word he'd say, except when he'd try to get me to say my own name. He'd say, "Ok, say 'Sarah'..." and my response would be to pause, get a huge cheesy grin on my face, and say, "Sasheeeeeeeee!" And it's stuck ever since.

Those who know me, get it. Those who don't, I'm sorry for the months of anticipation that have led to this huge moment of disappointment. At least now you'll know if you ever see me on the road.

Speaking of seeing me on the road, I hung out with my Man Cub last night... and I think I have a crush on him. Seriously. All week we'd been texting, and in my mind I expected him to be monosyllabic and to bow to my every beck and call. But he's actually really, really funny...and really, really skinny. Still really, really cute...just really, really skinny.

I'm not sure how I feel about that. Riding on the back of his bullet bike (sigh, yes, really..I know, I know, just let it go), I felt like I had nothing to hold onto. Like I was going to pull him right off the back of the bike with me. At least he'd have me to pad his fall comfortably.

There's nothing wrong with skinny guys, I just don't like the feeling of looking like the number ten when we stand next to each other. Not so crazy about that.

But I totally got my flirt on with the Man Cub. I'm talking full on, no holds barred, cougar-style flirting. I was a predator, and if I got into it, you'd feel retarded for me. So I'm just going to let it go at that.

But we'll see how it goes. In the meantime, I'm honing my predatory skillz and hoping to see the Man Cub again.

I Shall Call Him My Man Cub

Let me begin by saying that when my team morale is down, I'm not above calling a certain bullet biker even though I didn't think he was cute and his texts kind of freaked me out. Ladies, help me out here - we all like a little positive reinforcement, and Friday night, positive reinforcement was exactly what I needed. I'm sure you all have "moments" that you're not proud of...

He asked if I wanted to go for a ride so I said sure and arranged to meet him at Starbucks nearby. As I pulled up, I saw that not only was my biker boy there, but there were four other biker boys all with girls on the backs of their bikes. Ick. Those kind of girls. I know you know what kind of girls I'm talking about. I was on the phone with Yanaj at the time and she said, "Just keep going, man, don't even stop. Just keep going." But they'd already spotted me, so I climbed aboard and became one of them. That's right - I totally blended in with their tight skinny jeans and butt cracks hanging out as they crouched over their boyfriends. Not really.

Not the point. The point is that I wasn't even bothered by those girls and they're skinny jeans and little butts - I wasn't even bothered when biker boy's spittle flew back in my face as we were riding - because on my way there, I'd met a new prospect. As I was driving on the freeway, I noticed a Mazda 3 trying to race me, so naturally I smoked him (listen to me, I'm such a snob now) and then he pulled alongside me and I thought, hey he's kind of cute, so I smiled at him and let him pass. Then he started waving for me to follow him off the exit, and I thought, hey he's kind of cute so what the hell, and I did. And guess what - he was really cute and he asked for my number. Even better is the fact that he's got a bullet bike too...so maybe I'm becoming one of those girls, minus the skinny jeans and little butt, of course.

He texted me five minutes after I met him and then I found out...that he's only twenty two. Which kind of made me shudder and at the same time made me feel awesome. I know that four years isn't that big of a deal, but there is a big difference between a twenty two year old guy and a twenty six year old guy.

I call him my Man Cub, and I kind of want him to be my boyfriend so that I can be his puppet master and mold him and make him into exactly what I want. I have visions of us out at dinner and me teaching him which fork to use and then when he drips food on his chin, I tilt my head to the side and give him a knowing smile and say, "Oh, Man Cub. You are just adorable!" as I use his squared hankerchief to dab his chin.

Then I'll take him to a fancy wedding reception and teach him how to tie his tuxedo bow tie and he'll step on my toes when we're dancing but I won't mind because I am his older woman and he idolizes me.

Then we'll be sitting on his bike parked at the pier and between kisses I'll say, "Maverick...you big stud...take me to bed or lose me forever." And he'll say, "Um, my name isn't Maverick..." and I'll say, "Shhhhh shhhhhh shhhhh....." and I'll die a little inside because I'll realize that he's too young to have seen Top Gun and he totally doesn't get my fantasy.

I think the whole thing could be really fun. After all, isn't it my duty as an older experienced woman to crack open an egg of wisdom over the head of my Man Cub? Or several eggs, since in my fantasy, he doesn't even know which fork to use?

Yes...this is gonna be good.

That Shirt Just Paid For Itself...And A Restraining Order

Here's how it happened: My friends convinced me to buy a hot pink top. Let me clarify: a hot pink, short sleeved, cropped jacket with lapels and everything. For those of you unfamiliar with myself, I rarely wear anything other than black, and I never ever have worn a cropped jacket with lapels and everything.

So, the hot pink top. I wore it, got flagged down by a guy on a bullet bike who asked for my number and said he'd take me for a ride. Sold. Mostly because he looked cute - at least, the part around his eyes looked cute because he didn't take his helmet off. Then I remembered that any guy in either a helmet, baseball hat, or sunglasses looks cute. It's the trifecta of good looks tom foolery.

I totally got picked up by a complete stranger who liked my car and I liked his bike. Except I didn't know what his face looked like, so when he called me that night to go for a ride, I was a little nervous. I met him at a gas station and was relieved that when he pulled off his helmet and he looked OK. He wasn't bad looking at all, he just wasn't my type. [Read: huge bald guys with biceps as big as my head.]

He took me for a ride on his R6 and he smelled really good, but I thought I was going to die. It wasn't until later that I found out he'd been going 120 MPH on the freeway with me on the back. And also that he was Mexican. Lit'rally.

After about an hour of riding, I knew it was time for me to go because my butt and thighs had fallen asleep and my back and neck were kinked from being hunched over. He took me back to my car, and up until that point, I thought to myself, "This guy's OK...I should spend more time with him before ruling him out. I'd go out with him again."

Then I got home and he started texting me. And as I read the texts to my roommates, I knew I'd never want to hang out with him again.

I think ur really cute, I would love to keep hanging out with u, and date u and maybe become more than friends with you, I don't think u think the same though.

Ick. Shudder. I can't stand when people write "ur" or "u" or "2 cool 2 b 4 got 10". It gives me the retarded tingles. But it didn't stop there. After I didn't respond to his first charming text, he spent the rest of the night sending me the following messages:

So, is that ur answer to what I said? Lol.

What's ur answer to the first text, I sent though? I am confused, did u get it? Or do I have 2 say it in a different way? lol.

Hopefully we can get to know each other better so it can go somewhere, what r u doig tomorrow?

Would you b down to watch a movie?

N e way goodnight sexy.

You guys. Ew. Ew. N e way??? Really?? It was all just...wrong. I just don't even have time to tell you all the things wrong with this situation. And to think it all started so well, but at least I got a free near-death experience out of it, right? And a huge boost to my ego.

There was only one thing I could do to erase the stench of his poor texting etiquette: count down the minutes to ten o'clock this morning and buy my New Kids on the Block tickets.

The New Kids always make me feel better, but I don't know if I'm going to wear that hot pink top again.

So THAT'S What It's Called

Bone Junior: So, I did something tonight that I've never really done before.

Yanaj: Mmm hmmm?

Bone Junior: I shamelessly and successfully flirted with the guy at the car wash so that he'd give me a free air freshener. And he gave me two air fresheners!!

Yanaj: So, you blatantly traded your sexuality for a free air freshener?

Bone Junior: Two free air fresheners!

Yanaj: Yeah...Bone Junior? That's what we call a whore.

Note to self: Maybe being a whore isn't so bad if you get free stuff out of it?

It Helps to Be a Middle Child

As if you all haven't heard enough drama about my car...

What would you do if you found the car of your dreams and negotiated racing stripes as part of your deal, and they had to order three different sets of stripes until they were the right ones, and the whole process took two months, and when they finally got the stripes put on, they looked like crap?

If you were me, you would've taken one look at your dream car and told the dealership that the crappy stripes looked like crap and it was not acceptable and you wanted the entire thing redone. As in I can't believe you brought my dream car back looking like this. As in I can't believe you think this looks good. As in I want these crappy stripes taken off and the whole thing done. Again. As in I don't care how much more money it costs you but my dream car will be fixed.

Then you would've taken a tape measure and checked every space between the stripes and you would've gotten the opinion of every construction worker in a twenty mile radius and they would all laugh at you and tell you it looks like crap. And you would find out that the stripes are off center by as much as an inch and that it looks like someone with palsy did the cut outs around the license plates and rear emblem. Then you'd really get mad.

Then you'd go Pompei on their butts and the result would be that you'd get a custom paint job with better looking stripes than you'd ever imagined. And then, you'd finally be happy. As soon as your plates come in.

I'm Too Old For This

Once upon a time, I rarely went to bed before 2 am, and if there was a midnight showing of a movie on opening day, I was there. I had no trouble staying awake through a movie that didn't let out until 3 am.

Now? Not so much.

We went to see the midnight show of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull last night. By 8pm I was already yawning and wondering how I was going to last another seven hours. To keep me going, I had plenty of Diet Pepsi Max on hand and the pure excitement about finally seeing the new Indiana Jones...which actually turned out to be the very old, slow, and wrinkly Indiana Jones.

Don't get me wrong - I'm all about old guys making their comebacks. Sylvester Stallone, I love you. I loved the newest Rambo film and I don't care how old he is - Rocky looks freaking amazing for his age. Bruce Willis is another hot example of an old guy who still has the moves. Not to say that Harrison Ford doesn't look good, but...he just looks old. He sounds old, he moves old, and part of me is fairly certain that he smells old.

On the other hand, I imagine that Sylvester Stallone smells like leather, sweat and maybe diesel fuel. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm...

I don't want to spoil the movie for anyone, but it was...okay. Shine-uh My Buff is adorably hot, and there is some light comic relief. It's worth seeing in the theater for the completely ridiculous stunts. I also recommend not going at midnight because you may find yourself doing the head jerking thing a lot. Although the best part about it was the full length trailer for The Dark Knight beforehand.

Another best part about the movie was how we were let into the theater an hour before show time and this girl literally walked around to every single row and explained to people that it was her friend's birthday, and at exactly midnight, she wanted everyone in the theater to sing happy birthday. I'd overheard her shpiel several rows back and as she approached us, I thought okay, I can have some fun with this.

Girl: It's my friend's birthday blah blah blah midnight everyone sing blah blah blah okay??

Bone Junior: Sure, but how does that song go?

Girl: Blink blink. Slight confusion. Happy Birthday?

Bone Junior: Yeah, how does it go?

Girl: Nervous laughter. Um...starts singing...happy birthday toooooooo yoooouuuu--- do you really not know?

Bone Junior: No, I know how it goes, I'm just a jerk.

Ah, socially inappropriate behavior is awesome, especially at the expense of someone else.

You know what else was awesome? How half of my Butterfinger broke off and fell onto the floor and I picked it up and ate it. Off the movie theater floor.

That's just how I roll.

So Long, Menarche!

It's officially the end of an era. I sold the beloved beemer. Or as Erin has lovingly dubbed it, The Green Menarche. (It was the first car I'd ever bought). Try to keep up, people.
I felt a bit nostalgic and I may have wiped a single tear as I watched him drive away, seeing the rear brake light that has never worked and hearing the familiar metallic rattle of the catalytic converter. And as I listened to him drive away, I thought about my new mustang and knew I'd made the right decision. It was time to grow up.
Thanks for the memories, beemer. But I'm happy to pass on your expensive repairs, hard-to-find parts, sunroof that sometimes gets stuck open, and zero-to-sixty in 1.2 minutes on to someone else.

Hangin Tough

Just over a year ago, I did post about my quirks. My very first quirk was this:

- Every time (and I mean every time) I go out to my car, before its actually in my sight, I mentally rehearse what I will do and say if I catch someone in the act of vandalizing my car. "What I will do and say" usually consists of me yelling, swearing, and bobbing my head a lot in an intimidating manner.
I'd always secretly dreamed of catching someone in the act of vandalizing my beloved beemer, just so I could have an excuse to blow like the Godfather.

Well, my dream finally came true...except that my beloved beemer was vandalized and I didn't catch them in the act.

And for what? A four year old single disc Pioneer stereo?? Oh, and they stole all the quarters that were in the console. Apparently whoever stole my stereo also needs to do laundry. Not only are they bastards, but they're dirty bastards.

I didn't think there was anything that could turn my day around. Until I found out that the New Kids on the Block are COMING TO SALT LAKE CITY IN NOVEMBER!!!

You guys.

I think I might die from the anticipation and excitement. Was no one else a New Kids fan in the early nineties? Did none of you also have the Jordan doll, dangly earrings that said "I Heart Jordan", a poster over their bed of Jordan with his shirt half off and his braided rat tail over his shoulder, a huge stack of New Kids trading cards, a New Kids pillow case, a New Kids nightie, and a sister who had a huge Joey button and the Joey doll??? Can I get a whoop whoop?

Not even a smashed window and stolen stereo can bring me down now. The New Kids are coming to town!!!

And I will get on the floor and do the New Kids dance.

It's the Little Things

After I was taken out at the finish line, I likened myself to this:

Which, in turn, has given me Day Four of this:

Thank goodness for the little things like this:

And the fact that I have a rear end that looks as good as this:

Otherwise more people might be in danger of having stiletto poky stab marks up and down their backs. Now if only I could get my damn plates...

Now We Do The Splits of Joy

Bone Junior, on the phone to Bone Senior, voice warbling and lower lip trembling: Sister? Something terrible happened...the most humiliating, embarrassing moment of my life...I just want to die...

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So Saturday we did the Race for the Cure, and we actually ran some of the way. A major accomplishment for me, because I'm an avid non-believer in running. And after you hear about what happened at the race, I think you'll become an avid non-believer as well.

Our team started out strong near the front of the pack of thousands and thousands of participants. I made it clear from the start that I had no intention of running, mostly because everything bounces when I run, and not in a Baywatch kinda way. I avoid that kind of movement at all costs.

But once we started walking and were being passed by runners, I figured what the hell and we all ran for about three minutes. By then I was pretty winded, so we walked and decided that we'd sprint across the finish line in a final burst of hurrah, but would walk until then. Sounds good to me.

Two miles later, Nicole (who is 6'1" and all legs) and I were running side by side, sprinting full speed towards the finish line, which was surrounded by hundreds of people, news cameras, photographers, etc. I was running with my arms flailing and mouth wide open because I was so excited to be finishing the race. Nicole (who is 6'1" and all legs) was running with limbs flailing and mouth wide open because she was so excited to be finishing the race. We were quite the spectacle as we approached the finish line which - I cannot emphasize enough - was crowded with hundreds of people.

Unbeknownst to me, Nicole (who is 6'1" and all legs) had decided that when she crossed the finish line, she was going to jump up and kick her feet together out to the side, a la her celebratory jig. We were within mere feet of the brightly painted pink line on the ground. This was my moment. I finished! I did it!

I started to throw my hands up in the air when suddenly my left leg was kicked out from under me, mid stride, and I fell to the ground with my left leg bent underneath my body and my right leg straight out in front of me. But I didn't just fall to the ground - I had been moving forward with such force and momentum that I hit the ground and continued to slide forward for several more feet. I literally did the splits as I slid across the finish line.

I did the splits as I slid across the finish line.

In front of hundreds of people, who, by the way, I heard collectively gasp as they saw me go down. Suddenly I became a road block as the runners around me had to jump over and around me. Nicole quickly helped me up, and I heard people clapping as I limped away.

This was my big moment, my big accomplishment, and of course I had to be "that girl who fell and slid across the finish line."

It took a few minutes before I was able to laugh about it because I felt so embarrassed, but once I thought about it, I realized that if you have to go down, going down on your butt is the best way to go. It would've been WAY worse if I'd have flipped ass over teakettle and gone headfirst - I could've broken a tooth, or at the very least walked away with some serious road rash on my face. Instead, I limped away with serious road rash on my knee. My bruised pride was by far the worst injury.

Day One

Day Two

Day Three

I look forward to sharing more pictures as both my bruise and humiliation continue to develop. My only comfort is that maybe someday I'll see myself on America's Funniest Home Videos. Show me the money.

I'm Up For It

One week ago, I had to open my big mouth and brag to Jamie about how many pairs of shoes I have. She challenged me to wear a different pair of heels every day for a week, and being the one-upper that I am, I told her that I'd wear every single pair of my heels with no repeats until I ran out of shoes.

This probably sounds more like a fun, girly thing to do as opposed to the bain of my existence right now. However, it's not a fun, girly thing for me to do, mostly because I'm not a girly girl (despite the number of heels I own) and I never know when I'm going to be on a job site, which means that if I'm wearing heels on a job site, I'm automatically a whore. Not to mention that I've also started wearing hoop earrings, so I'm a bona fide hoochie mama. At least that's how I look when I teeter through the dirt and gravel on a job site. Hot, I know.

And for lack of better material to post about, I figured I'd make the best of the situation and at least try to have fun with it. That being said, please to enjoy a photo diary of days 3, 4, and 5. Days 1 and 2 are on Jamie's camera and will be posted as soon as I get them.

Crazy Lady Radio Rant Update: The license plates have been ordered, and I'm taking the car in on Thursday morning for the stripes. Knock on wood. I'm planning on wearing my highest, pokiest heels on Thursday just in case I need to leave puncture marks up and down someone's back.

My Sister Is Always Right Update: Last night, I went to a kick boxing class. Bone Senior is probably exclaiming, "Woo hoo!!! Yay for you!!!" with glee as she reads that. Yes, I actually dragged my bucket of yuck to the gym and participated in an hour-long kick boxing class. And by "participated in", I mean "moaned, groaned and made horrific heaving noises as I struggled to follow the turbo jam choreography."

But here's the thing - I didn't hate it. In fact, I liked it. I felt really good afterwards. And I know Bone Senior is going to say "I told you so!" when she reads this, but that's OK, because Bone Senior knows best. She's been trying to get me to go to the gym for years, but my defense has always been that I hate hate hate working out. When I use the elliptical machine at my house, I just get more and more angry. When I'm done, I'm pissed. Lit'rally. I'd rather go play tennis for an hour. But the class was actually fun, and I'm going to keep going.

So, after years of stubborn resistance, I admit defeat and surrender to the gym. Which is a good thing, because last weekend I bought this bathing suit



and cellulite just will not do. I'm holding on to the faint glimmer of hope that I can actually get away with wearing this bathing suit, because Yanaj's first response when she saw me in it was: "Now see, if you had boobs, you couldn't wear that."

Rock on, ta ta's. Rock. On.

The Day I Revived My Crazy Lady Bathrobe, Curlers and Rolling Pin

Hypothetically, if you happened to be listening to the radio this afternoon around 3:45 pm and happened to hear that a popular radio station was doing a live remote broadcast from a local car dealership; then you might have happened to hear an irate sounding lady who just "happened" to plant herself right next to the broadcast table, shouting and demanding to speak to the person in charge of licensing because her personalized plates still hadn't been ordered, who was then promptly escorted by the general manager into a private office to avoid any further embarrassment to the dealership via the radio waves.

Hypothetically.

Things I Love Thursday

1. Our company got a flier two weeks ago that advertised a "Customer Appreciation Breakfast" for a supplier that we use regularly. The breakfast was this morning, and I'd been looking forward to it for the entire two weeks that the flier had been up. At 8:30, Jamie and I loaded into the mustang and headed to the address that was listed. *Note* The flier had only the street address, no city. We spent approximately 40 minutes driving to the street address in every adjoining city, talking on the radio to other superintendents who were also trying to find the location of said breakfast; only to finally call the supplier and find out that the breakfast was at their Cedar City location. Translation: three and a half hours away. I love this.***

2. After six weeks of haggling, hassling, and general haberdashery, I finally snapped and channeled my inner ghetto hoochie mama on the phone with the car dealership. Everyone around me saw it coming, they're just surprised it took me so long to finally lose it; I was a ticking time bomb of fury, and the fact that six weeks after I ordered and paid for personalized plates, the dealership hadn't even ORDERED the plates through the DMV was the straw that broke this camel's back. And by camel, I mean bull-headed, stubborn, confrontational Aries that has had. It. Up. To. Here. And was about to blow like the Godfather.

This was the last thing on a list of crap that the dealership has yet to make good on. Namely, I still have no racing stripes, I still have no customized grill piece, I still have no personalized plates. Translation: I spent twenty minutes on the phone, bobbing my head, jabbing my fingers in the air, and yelling at the top of my lungs at the dealership. I cannot remember the last time I was this livid. Miraculously, I did it all without swearing once. I have no idea how this happened. All I know is that I have been seething and foaming at the mouth ever since.

If something doesn't happen pronto, I am not above marching in there in my 4-inch stiletto heels and hoop earrings, and leaving stab marks up and down someone's back. I will cause a scene and I will go all ghetto-confrontational on their ass. I love this about myself.

3. It's the first day of May, and it's snowing. I love this.***

4. Jamie challenged me to a bet that's worth lunch: I have to wear high heels to work every day for a week. Why? Because I was telling her how each pair of my heels has it's own clear plastic shoe box that is stacked on the top shelf of my closet and that there were at least twenty-five pairs. Her response was that I always wear the same shoes over and over. My response was that I have to wear sensible shoes because I never know when I'll be on a job site and if I teetered onto a job site wearing stilettos I'd look like a whore. Her response was to bet me that I couldn't wear heels every day for a week. I stubbornly accepted.

Today is day two of the bet and I really am wearing 4-inch stilettos, as referenced in the above stabbing threat. These are by far the trampiest heels I own, and I'm not above wearing them to work. My feet are killing me. I love this.***

***And by love, I mean that I'm PMSsy and everything pisses me off today, especially these things.